Usually
by Helen-Elise
Summary: Oneshot. Huang's POV. George reflects on his job and life after a hard case. I'm really bad at descriptions, but its really good. R&R please! Minimal violence and language, rated T just to be safe.


**A****/N****: We know nothing about Huang except that he is a cute, Asian forensic psychiatrist who has lived in his apartment for 6 years. I think he mentioned a sister, too. So, here's my tribute to him. I hope that Dick can forgive me for constantly featuring his characters as slobbering drunks. **

**Also, this is kind of a sequel ****to my story "One of Those Days." It's not critical that you read it first, but I recommend it. I also recommend reviews. Really, it means a lot and it doesn't take you very long. Enjoy!**

This is sick. I've spent my whole career making the scum of the earth talk about their feelings. And what do I have to show for it? A bottle of Valium in my medicine cabinet to fend off my nightmares and anxiety. I wake up in the middle of the night sweating and grabbing for reality. Reality isn't all that great, though. I'm about one sip away from downing my third beer, and these thoughts haven't gone away.

Of all people, I should know that alcohol isn't a solution. I preach that day in and day out. I know that I'm not immune to its seduction, but I know when to stop. Usually. When these thoughts leave my head and I'm reduced to a sobbing lump on the bar stool, usually. I only do this when a case is too much to handle.

I have seen inside the minds of the most disgusting criminals imaginable, but no matter how many times I am brought on to a case like this, I just can't wrap my mind around it. A father? How? Children are God's gift to the world, and he hurt her until he couldn't anymore, so he threw her into the icy depths of the Hudson. I had to listen to him describe her tiny frame sinking to a watery grave, and how he laughed. Like he laughed when I asked him if he loved his daughter. "Of course I loved her. She was the most beautiful, perfect little thing I've ever done." I asked him if there were others and he just laughed and whispered, "Hundreds."

Four beers down and I can still see his smile through the flickering lights of the interrogation room. I can hear his laugh surrounding me. I want to just fall into nothingness until it stops, but instead I hit the bar to get the bartender's attention. He brings be another drink and takes my empty glass from the smooth countertop. I run my fingers over the cool glass and consider banging my head on it until I fall into unconsciousness. Instead I lift my glass and decide to take the scenic route to the floor. That's where I'll be soon enough.

These cases have to affect everyone. I know they are all staring in horror behind the glass but still… it's my eyes that he stares into while he confesses to mutilating his daughter's soul. It's my questions he is answering. And it's me that is throwing up in the bathroom ten minutes later. That's all my job is, usually.

Two sips into my next drink and I'm hit with an all too familiar pain. It's more of an ache, really. That disgusting man's face fades from my mind and is replaced by thoughts that I haven't had in years. What is the point of doing this? I listen and analyze and treat, but I get nothing from it. I honestly wanted to help people, but I got sucked into the distressing field of forensic psychiatry for the glory. I help put criminals in prison. I never thought twice about how it could affect me. And even when we get another one behind bars, there are thousands more out there. It's never enough, usually.

I ask for another and get dizzy as I lift my hand. The bartender brings my drink and stares at me. I stare back and start to ask him something, but it comes out a drunken mess. He shakes his head and walks away. Usually by now I have picked myself up and gone home, but honest to God, I doubt I can walk.

I take slow sips this time. I'm already numb, so there's no use in drinking much more. My head spins as I examine my small dingy surroundings. There us a handful of other people here. It is quiet and eerie. My glance moves from one person to another. Why are they sitting in a bar at 1:30 in the morning? No matter how much alcohol is running through my veins, I can't stop thinking like a shrink. Are any of them cops? Other shrinks? Pedophiles? You can't work where I do without suspecting everyone.

I finish off the last drop and call out for another. I know I've had too much, but it's getting close to last call and I'll want it. I barely notice the glasses changing and the amber liquid moving to my mouth. After you do things enough, they just become habit. After a while, my head stops spinning and I sit in silence. The bar is empty except for me now.

I stand carefully and balance myself. I throw some cash on the table and head to the door. I'm probably stumbling more than I realize, but I don't care. I'm only a block from my apartment and there probably isn't anyone I know around to stomp on my pride.

Usually, I hate my job. Almost daily I walk into my office in the morning with every intention of quitting. But then, I stare at the ever-growing stack of case files on my desk. I know I have to stay. There's always a victim counting on me to catch the person who haunts their nightmares. I can't quit, I want to with every fiber of my being, but I can't. I took this career to help, and I can't do that if I spend my nights sitting in a bar feeling sorry for myself. Besides, it's worth it, usually.

_End_


End file.
